Speaking of Serpents
by Rachelea
Summary: They say that The Boy Who Lived has power the Dark Lord knows not. Problem is, Sherlock doesn't know what that power is, or how to use it. As usual, Mycroft isn't helping.
1. Chapter 1

Ignored by the hurrying throngs of people, a scrawny, black-haired boy stood before the glass case that housed the largest exhibit and stared inside. If any had stopped to notice the boy, they would have thought his unblinking gaze more suited to the snake inside—but the reptile was asleep, head resting on its coiled body, apparently unmoved by the carrying voices and occasional taps on the glass from the zoo's visitors.

Sherlock could definitely relate. Casting a quick glance behind him, he wondered what the rush was, why people scurried through a trip undertaken for pleasure.

Sherlock had never been to a zoo before, and didn't expect to be again. That was for people like Mycroft, who had pocket money and friends and, above all, a family who actually cared. So in spite of the stifling crowds, he was doing his best to enjoy it now.

Uncle Vernon was a gorilla, he had decided—loud and brash and prone to displays of aggression unless he got his way. Aunt Petunia was as graceless and bony as a giraffe, but carried herself through the unbearable dullness of her life with all the self-satisfaction of one of the peacocks strutting between picnic tables with the pigeons. Mycroft was a panther, secretive and aloof. On certain occasions twining into your path like a housecat wanting attention. And always, always dangerous.

I am a snake, Sherlock decided, watching the inert, curled body in front of him. The serpent evidently thought so too, because all of a sudden its eyes snapped open and fixed on him. Sherlock caught his breath. For a moment, the noises behind him grew quiet.

He raised a hand to the glass, resting on its smooth surface, imagining that he could step through the glass to stroke the metallic scales and peer back more closely into the slitted pupils boring into his.

"Hello," he murmured.

The snake arched its neck slowly upward until its head hung at his eye level. It stayed that way for a long moment, swaying back and forward, and then opened its fanged mouth. The tongue flickered in and out, but what emerged was not a hiss.

"Hello, small human," it said.

Sherlock blinked once, hard. He knew what Mycroft would say, what his teachers would say—this was impossible. Completely unbelievable. Well, it was the latest in a series of things should have been impossible but weren't. Therefore it was logical to assume that some of the prevailing scientific theories were wrong, and proceed by gathering all the data possible.

"I didn't know snakes could speak," he said as casually as though his heart weren't threatening to break out of his ribcage.

"All creatures can sspeak," the boa constrictor replied, and this time Sherlock could hear the hissing undertone. "Excccept those that are incredibly dull." It flicked its head lightly to the side to indicate the rushing crowd, one or two of whom were beginning to take notice of the reptile's strange behavior.

Sherlock grinned. "Most creatures, then."

The dip of the snake's head seemed to indicate affirmation. "Mosst creaturesss here."

"Where would you go, if you were free?"

The tail jabbed toward the glass, indicating a sign in the lower corner.

"Native to Brazil. Bred in captivity," Sherlock read aloud. He gave a sympathetic grimace. "That's me, too."

There was no time to register the snake's hissing warning before another voice sounded above his head. Piercing, as always in its mild eloquence.

"How very melodramatic of you, cousin." Mycroft was amused. "What have we here?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. It wasn't like him to fail to notice Mycroft's approach, but nor was it every day he got to talk to a snake. Logic and gathering information was all very well, but he could hardly blame himself for being carried away in the sheer delightful unbelievableness of it all. He turned to his cousin with a carefully schooled expression of boredom.

"It's a boa constrictor, Mycroft. I was led to assume that your early graduation to secondary school was a good indication you could read, but apparently I was wrong."

"And you've been having a lovely little chat with it."

Sherlock bit down his anger. It wouldn't do to let his cousin know how close he had come to the mark. Though who knew how long he had been standing there?

"It seemed the only opportunity for intelligent conversation that would arise for a while." He turned back to the glass. The snake was resting its head again, but wasn't asleep. It seemed to be regarding him with almost an air of amusement.

"What?" Sherlock hissed.

"Do uss both a favor, small human."

"What do you mean?"

The tail tapped the glass again.

Sherlock brought his hand up to the smooth surface again. What the snake was suggesting was utterly ridiculous. Just like the time his teacher's wig turned blue, and the spontaneous combustion of Aunt Petunia's rhododendrons. But it wasn't as though he could actually…

His hand was touching empty air. The glass had vanished.

Sherlock would treasure the look on his cousin's face for the rest of his life. Mycroft, usually calm, collected, and more pompous that any thirteen year old had a right to be, had seen the glass vanish and stumbled backward in panic. The snake was moving within seconds—Sherlock felt a thrill that ought to have been fear as the huge serpent slithered toward him, past him…he could swear he heard a quiet "Thankss, amigo," as it went by…and then, with a playful nip at Mycroft's ankles, it was gone. In blind panic, Mycroft seized an umbrella from a passerby and brandished it, but the boa constrictor was already vanishing into the crowd.

Sherlock pressed his back against a wall and smiled as the first screams rent the air.

* * *

It wasn't very long before the letters came, in floods.

Sherlock had had barely a day to kick himself over letting that envelope into the presence of his aunt and uncle—_stupid, idiot, they never let you have anything, why would they let you have that?—_when the downpour came. It was the best—that is, least boring—afternoon of Sherlock's life. As Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon shooed the boys frantically from the parlor, Sherlock could barely refrain from rolling his eyes. He himself had three letters shoved down his shirt and another in the waistband of his too-large jeans; no doubt Mycroft had at least five.

No sooner had the brief, but very enlightening conversation between his parents ended before Mycroft corralled his smaller cousin into his room.

"All right," he said, steering Sherlock onto the rug and plopping down beside him. "Spill. I have little doubt that the contents of these letters are identical, but we may as well be sure." He removed a half-dozen letters from the sleeve of his cardigan as he spoke.

Sherlock scowled, but Mycroft's idea made sense. Given that Sherlock had no way to prevent his interfering cousin from reading _his_ letter he supposed they may as well pool their data. He pulled out the three letters he'd tucked away, leaving the one in his waistband hidden. Mycroft was unpredictable, and if he tried confiscating the letters—_for my own good, of course_—Sherlock wanted at least one copy to peruse at his leisure.

Mycroft seized a letter opener from his desk and carefully slid the blade under the scarlet seal of the first envelope. Sherlock would have kept back at least one, of course; but that didn't concern him. What concerned Mycroft were the contents, and as he pulled a sheaf of oddly heavy paper (parchment?) from the envelope Sherlock leaned forward and the two boys read together.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

When they had finished the letter—the beautiful, impossible letter—they set about opening the rest of the envelopes. Each letter was identical, down to the impossibly symmetrical curves of the handwriting. Sherlock turned the parchment over and over in his hands, studying it from every angle. Mycroft leaned back against the mattress, thinking.

"Whoever these people are, they're either pulling some massive practical joke on you—"

Sherlock's eyes cut his way for a split second, and Mycroft laughed.

"Far be it from me to waste this kind of resources on you, little cousin. Quite apart from the fact that I don't have two dozen trained owls at my command."

Even that wouldn't really surprise him, Sherlock thought, but knew better than to say aloud. He settled for, "So either it's a joke, or this…magical society…has kept their secret from the world for years. Centuries, probably."

"I don't imagine it's all that difficult."

Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Mycroft waved a hand lazily. "Trained owls and magical schools aside—I mean, if this _is_ real they'll have some sort of magical method to cover that up anyway—but even if a few people notice, so what? They get labeled as drunkards or lunatics. Anyway, you heard Mother and Father. _They_ knew and kept the secret, and you'll never meet two such…"

"...boring…"

"…practical people," he finished.

Sherlock cast him that flat glance again, which Mycroft knew was a façade to cover building excitement. Hope, after all, was a weakness, a weapon.

"So _you_ think all this is true?"

"Scientific method, little cousin." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't think I've forgotten the vanishing glass incident," suppressing a shudder. "Don't tell me you had nothing to do with that. There is definitely something…"

"…special…"

"…weird about you."

Sherlock huffed. "You have only circumstantial evidence as far as the snake is concerned."

"Just like all the incidents at school."

This time Sherlock kept sullenly silent. It was really no surprise that Mycroft knew.

"All right." He finally threw a piece of parchment down in Mycroft's lap. "What do you make of it, I know you're dying to say…"

Mycroft needed no further encouragement.

"Emerald ink, not your standard ballpoint tip. Not a calligraphy pen either, but similar…I'd say a quill, except there's no variation in ink flow…no sign of dipping the tip to refill the calamus…"

Sherlock, lost in contemplation, opened his eyes long enough to give Mycroft a look that said _magic_.

Mycroft cleared his throat and continued, picking up an envelope this time.

"They've got your address here, down to your bedroom, which implies a highly efficient level of surveillance, to the point of creepiness…"

Sherlock snorted quietly. The irony was not lost on Mycroft.

"The only blemishes are a few sharp impressions here…"

"The owl's claws, of course."

"Precisely. And the intricate wax seal, the coat of arms—"

"—indicates a near-obsessive fixation with tradition, as does the use of parchment instead of paper. However magical the society, I find it difficult to believe it's more efficient to produce goat skins than wood pulp."

"Quite." Mycroft drew up his knees and regarded his younger cousin expectantly. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and presented Mycroft with his sweetest smile.

"Because we've enjoyed _such_ a close relationship all these years. Any particular reason I should begin sharing my thoughts with you?"

"Allies, little cousin. You saw how Mum and Dad acted, do you honestly want me on their side instead of yours?"

"Ah, the lovely yet treacherous bloom of family loyalty."

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft made a point never to indulge in activities as uncouth as snorting, but he was sorely tempted now.

"Sherlock, look at the resources these people have. Do you think you could stay away from them if you tried? Mummy and Dad, much as I love them, are being delusional."

"I'm flattered," said Sherlock drily.

"You're _wanted,_ little cousin. Savor the unfamiliar sensation."

"Shut up," said Sherlock absently, scanning the parchment again. "You just want a…" he found it a little difficult to get the word out. "A _wizard_ on your side. Whatever side that may be."

After a minute he relented. "I suppose I'll answer the letter. 'We await your owl'…that's obvious, at least. Nice of them to assume we all have intelligent predatory birds as pets."

"Who knows, you might have a talent for necromancy. Those remains in your room…"

Sherlock cut him off. "Were already dead, it's an _experiment_."

Mycroft walked to the window to regard the thick carpet of owls coating the nearby cars. "I think you're covered on that count anyway."

Sherlock, still sprawled on the floor, held up a hand in mock resignation. "Got a pen?"

* * *

Watching his cousin secure the folded notebook paper to the leg of an unnaturally tame chocolate-brown owl, Mycroft spoke up. "These letters are quite formal. You don't think it would be better to respond in kind?"

"What, and slaughter a goat?" Sherlock cast him a look of disdain. "Just because these people are stuck in the Dark Ages doesn't mean _I'm_ going to be."

Mycroft swallowed his grin along with an unexpected pang of jealousy. These wizards weren't going to know what hit them.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood back to take careful note of the pattern that Hagrid was tapping into the brick wall with the tip of his umbrella. Twenty minutes earlier, they had entered a sleazy little pub (the most unlikely-looking entrance to a grand magical world imaginable, if the words "Leaky Cauldron" had not been painted in faded letters on a creaky wooden sign.) The whole place looked as though it ought to be condemned, though probably they were going for 'unobtrusive'. It had not escaped Sherlock how the gazes of Londoners slid over the building as though it did not exist. But if the pub was enchanted so Muggles couldn't see it, why bother with unobtrusive? Unless the charm was simply a distractor? It made sense, after all; traditional magicians' tricks relied on distractions. Imagine what could be accomplished with _real_ magic, with the power to alter the mind's perceptions…

Sherlock watched in fascination as the bricks in front of him began to move. Vibrating, wriggling and twisting, they gradually opened a hole that grew wider and wider until it was a grand archway.

Sherlock, whose racing thoughts ranged from his apparent celebrity to _interesting model for molecular motion _lingered for a moment on the mystery of Diagon Alley, wedged as it must be between two parallel streets with no more than twenty feet between them. Was it some sort of extension charm? If so, how did it work? Did wizards know how to connect to a fourth spatial dimension? Or, as seemed more likely, was it a question of perception? Hoodwink the Muggles somehow, as with the invisible pub. But then how did they wipe the reality from satellite imaging?

Sherlock jumped when a large hand clapped down on his back. He looked up to see the groundskeeper grinning down at him.

"All righ', Sherlock? 'S a bit o' surprise, first time. Welcome ter Diagon Alley!"

* * *

The boy had been silent all morning, taking everything in with those brilliant green eyes. Hagrid eyed him worriedly. As a boy, James Potter was overconfident, arrogant even, and never at a loss for words. Lily, while more thoughtful, was equally intelligent—and didn't mind showing it. Neither had ever displayed much reserve, and though Hagrid had only known the boy for a day, it seemed out of character for their son as well.

The day previous, the groundskeeper had been escorted inside number four Privet Drive by a highly infuriated Vernon Dursley, who obviously found Hagrid's bulk an affront to nature. Petunia Dursley had nearly fainted at the shock of seeing him, and he had been left standing on the front stoop for several minutes before a calm voice inside pointed out that the neighbors would surely start wondering what the giant of a man was doing on their doorstep. Sidestepping Dursley's bristling frame and squeezing into the narrow entrance hall, Hagrid had come face-to-face with the owner of the voice: a tall, slightly plump brunette boy, whose gaze fixed with amusement on the frilly pink umbrella Hagrid carried.

Hagrid had shifted his umbrella awkwardly into his other hand and wondered what to say—surely _this_ wasn't James' and Lily's son?—but before he could open his mouth, a younger boy, with a shock of dark curly hair, was skidding into the hall.

"Hogwarts?" he said, giving Hagrid a searching look with unsettlingly familiar green eyes.

"Yes, obviously," he answered his own question. "Took you less than a day to get here…I suppose you probably have magical means of transportation, but the owl that took my letter appeared ordinary, in terms of flying ability at least. So, judging by your arrival time, I'd assume that the school is somewhere in Britain, probably somewhere remote…Scotland?" he guessed, narrowing his eyes at the muddy stains on Hagrid's enormous boots.

"I imagine that your appearance isn't typical of wizards," he mused, "especially not if you're claiming I'm—Oh!" The boy's eyes lit up. "Do giants exist?"

Hagrid was spared answering by a muffled groan. He moved aside hastily, releasing the Dursleys, whom he had unintentionally pinned to the wall upon turning to meet Sherlock. A muffled voice he now recognized as belonging to the Dursley boy came from somewhere next to his elbow.

"I think this conversation should be continued in the sitting room, don't you?"

Sherlock led the way into the large room; at least, he had thought it large before seeing Hagrid in it. The giant man ducked his head, sending the light fixture swinging violently. He cast a helpless glance at Aunt Petunia's dainty cushioned chairs before taking up the entire width of the sofa. Aunt Petunia, now timidly peering over the shoulder of a livid Uncle Vernon, cringed as it sunk with an ominous groan.

Sherlock had taken a chair opposite Hagrid, grinning broadly. He seemed to have forgotten the others—the ungrateful brat, thought Uncle Vernon, swelling in outrage. Aunt Petunia looked on in fear as Mycroft calmly seated himself next to the fireplace.

"Rubeus Hagrid," said the giant, extending an enormous hand. Sherlock shook it, wincing as his own fingers were crushed in a fist larger than his entire head. "Keeper o' the keys and grounds a' Hogwarts."

"I'm Sherlock," the boy said quickly, pushing down the dozen or so fresh questions that sprang into his mind at these words. "Sherlock Potter."

The giant smiled for the first time, which had the effect of making his eyes almost disappear in his bushy beard.

"I know who yeh are," he said gruffly. "Knowed it as soon as I set eyes on yeh. Yer the spittin' image of yer da', Sherlock, wid' yer mum's eyes…though I 'spect them cheekbones came from Lily too."

In the doorway, Aunt Petunia let out a muffled squeak. Sherlock's immediate questions—about Hogwarts, and wizard transportation, and the potency of an individual's magic—died away on his lips. He had never heard his parents mentioned by name; it was always "your sister", and "that good-for-nothing" on the rare occasions they were mentioned at all. He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair tightly; suddenly—for no logical reason—needing desperately to know.

"What was my father's name?"

"James," said Hagrid, looking bewildered. "Yer father's name was James, o' course, don' ye know that?"

_Lily and James,_ Sherlock said to himself, tasting the names. _Lily and James…my parents…I had parents once…_

Of course he'd had parents, but they'd vanished so early, so completely, from his life; leaving (until now) nothing for him to remember them by, unless you counted the jarring nightmares that still woke him some nights. He'd been far too young to retain any memory of his parents, Sherlock knew, and the dreams he'd had for as long as he could remember were no doubt the products of his own brain, trying to fill in details of the car crash…though he had no idea where his subconscious had dredged up the green light from; copper residue in the flames could cause that, but it was doubtful his infantile fancy had known that…he'd been already three years old, after all, the first time he stole Mycroft's chemistry set…

"Blimey, ye've grown, Sherlock. I was the one that brung ya' here," Hagrid broke into his thoughts. His eyes filled with tears. "Just a tiny thing, you was, wavin' them fists and squallin'…I pulled ye' from the house just 'fore the Muggles showed up."

"House?" echoed Sherlock distractedly. "Do you mean car?"

Now Hagrid looked stupefied. "Car? Wha' car?"

"The car crash that killed my parents," Sherlock said impatiently. "Were you there? Did they crash into a house?"

Before Hagrid's outrage had time to manifest itself on his face, Sherlock knew.

He didn't remember getting to his feet. "They lied."

Sherlock took a trembling step toward his uncle, fighting down his rage. Vernon was planted in the doorway, mustache bristling defiantly, looking not the least bit sorry. "DIDN'T YOU?"

"And what if we did?" his uncle snarled back, wearing a very ugly expression indeed. "Took you in, didn't we? Didn't have much bloody choice…I swore when they dumped you on our doorstep we'd stamp the unnaturalness out of you, but now I see what I should've known since day one, there wasn't a chance of you turning out decent…"

"DECENT?" roared Hagrid, who was suddenly on his feet and seemed to fill the whole room. "And ye call this decent, do yeh, Dursley? Dressin' him in rags…doesn' know 'is own parents' names…"

"Take him then!" shrieked Aunt Petunia, who had grown so pale she was in danger of blending into the wall. "Take him to this, this _magic_ school of yours, let him turn out like my freak of a sister, just don't come crawling back to tell us when he gets himself blown up as well…"

"Blown up?" whispered Sherlock, taking another faltering step toward his aunt. Something very strange was happening in his mind, as though her words had unlocked a door and a rush of memories was pouring out. These weren't memories, though, they couldn't be; they were _dreams_, and he felt a swooping rush of nausea as the emerald light flared brighter than ever behind his eyelids, and this time his mother's screaming was accompanied by high, cold laughter…

He was vaguely aware of more raised voices, and tension building to a dull pounding in his head—and then pain ripped across his scar, an explosion shook the room. Dazed, Sherlock felt himself dragged backwards…the echo that sounded in his ears was nearby and far off all at once…and then there was silence. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were standing, frozen and slack-jawed, staring at Hagrid. Sherlock felt himself released from behind; the explosion had jolted him back to his senses. The room didn't appear to be destroyed, although there were scorch marks on the walls and ceiling, and most of the furniture had toppled and was lying at various odd angles. Looking up, Sherlock saw that the light fixture was still intact, though swaying violently above the spot where he had been standing. Bits of plaster dotted the cream-colored carpet. It was as though a very small, concentrated lightning storm had ripped through the room and then left.

Mycroft's voice sounded behind Sherlock, almost as jarring in the shocked silence as the raised voices had been.

"Perhaps we can find a way to carry on this conversation without further upsetting the delicate internal balance of my cousin."

* * *

Vernon and Petunia Dursley had left the room following the explosions, Uncle Vernon quite purple in the face, still grinding his jaw and muttering under his breath about "magic tricks" and "Better not come crawling back here after that show". Neither of them, however, seemed keen to confront Hagrid anymore; it was clear they both thought that the sooner they rid themselves of their nephew, the better. Mycroft stayed behind, the lone spectator, and Sherlock impatiently bit back his most urgent questions, the ones about his mother and father and how they'd gotten themselves "blown up".

Sherlock fought the growing ache in his head—his scar, again, and wondered whether the explosion still rang in the ears of the others. Mycroft calmly surveyed them both, though his hand twitched slightly, and Sherlock thought he must be fighting the urge to brush the dust and bits of plaster from his immaculate clothing. Hagrid's anger had been soothed away and now he merely fidgeted, apparently uncertain where to begin. Mycroft spoke up when Sherlock did not.

"If you would begin at the beginning, Mr. Hagrid?"

The giant looked relieved.

"At the beginnin'. Righ'. S'what Dumbledore said. Well Sherlock, there don' seem much point askin' this now, but did yeh ever find tha' strange things happen, when yer scared or upset?"

"Once or twice," returned Sherlock, fighting the urge to fling something at Mycroft, who was laughing behind his hand.

"Tha' was magic. Yer a wizard, Sherlock."

Hagrid explained about Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, and Sherlock's school supplies; blissfully unaware that both cousins were doing their best not to cringe at his grammar. When the explanation wound down, Sherlock made an unexpected request.

"Do some magic," he said.

Hagrid was taken aback. "Do some…blimey, Sherlock, don' yeh believe me, after wha' yeh just did?"

Sherlock schooled his expression carefully.

"What I felt," he said, "was an explosion. Explosions can have any number of possible causes. That I was the catalyst of this one seems probable, but thus far you have offered me no evidence that Hogwarts school even exists."

"Or that magic can be controlled," put in Mycroft, amused.

Sherlock glared at him.

"Why are you still here?"

"My mum's parlor?"

"I never knew you were so fond of it."

"You're blocking the telly," said Mycroft.

Sherlock determined to do what he did best, and ignore him.

Hagrid's hopes that the request was forgotten were dashed when Sherlock turned back to him expectantly.

"Er…" he twisted the frilly pink umbrella in his thick fingers, avoiding Sherlock's eye. "It's just that, strictly speakin', I'm not supposed ter do magic…"

Mycroft interrupted smoothly. "Surely it would be permissible here. After all, you were sent to explain magic to a boy who has grown up without it. There's no telling how difficult he'll be to convince."

Sherlock joined in, wearing an expression of skepticism. "I'm sorry, Hagrid. I really am. But you have to admit it sounds pretty unbelievable."

He stood, dusting bits of plaster off his jeans, and offered his hand to the flustered groundskeeper. "Thank you for your time, sir, I'll show you out."

To Mycroft's everlasting credit, he kept a completely straight face.

* * *

"I must say, cousin, I'll miss the melodrama when you're gone."

"Ah oo ike atchyer ads ood eshur ise."

"What?"

Sherlock rinsed and spat into the bathroom sink. "I said, I too enjoy watching your dad's blood pressure rise."

"Charming."

Sherlock grinned. "You never know. With me gone, he could fall below, oh, 180/120."

"I suppose that tomorrow, as soon as I'm not around, you'll ask Hagrid about _your_ parents?"

The grin vanished. "Obviously."

"Diagon Alley sounds quite…enchanting. Try not to get too distracted by shiny objects." Mycroft's voice dropped for a moment. "I would like to know, as well. If you don't mind telling me."

He sounded a little too sincere. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Why would you care?"

"Lily was my aunt, you know."

"Oh, are we saying their names now? I thought that was taboo." Sherlock didn't bother to hide his bitterness.

Mycroft squeezed an impossibly even amount of toothpaste onto his own toothbrush.

"I don't actually think you or your parents are the root of all evil, you know. Or magic either," he added thoughtfully.

"Don't you?" Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. There was silence for a moment, hovering halfway between awkward and comfortable.

Then Sherlock, with characteristic mercuriality, spat the words at his cousin. "Did you know?"

"No, Sherlock. I promise."

Sherlock knew very well that Mycroft's promises were worth exactly the measure of inconvenience it would cause him to break them.

"Lies have tells," he growled, believing him anyway. "Uncle Vernon's rubbish at hiding them…I should have known—you _definitely_ should have known…"

"You were perhaps four when you asked the question," Mycroft replied smoothly through a mouthful of toothpaste. (Sherlock would've given his stolen chemistry textbook to know how he managed that.) "I was six. And I was most likely at school."

"You remember."

"I recall the dust-up at dinner that evening on the subject of flying motorcycles," returned Mycroft drily. "It tends to stick in the memory."

* * *

"Is there anything else you'll miss?"

Sherlock's voice drifted from the bedroom at the end of the hall, to which he'd reluctantly been permitted to relocate several years before, after a "minor" chemical fire in his cupboard had nearly trapped the entire Dursley family on the second floor. Of course he'd paid for it, living off bread and water for nearly a month—but it had been worth it.

Mycroft, clad in long silk pajamas, was carrying a carefully made cup of tea up the stairs. Sherlock lounged against the door frame, more elegantly blasé than any eleven-year-old in hand-me-down pajamas had a right to look.

"Besides the drama. I wondered if you'd miss the charm of my company."

It was a suspiciously casual question. But Mycroft knew it _was_ casual; Sherlock himself didn't care for anyone's company, least of all his cousin's, and there was no love lost between them. Mycroft sometimes doubted whether Sherlock would have understood the concept of affection even if he had grown up in a less dysfunctional family.

"I might miss Fluffy." Mycroft nodded at the salmon-pink cushion that represented Hagrid's eventual concession to performing magic; he'd been attempting to turn the thing into a cat, and it was now sporting pointed ears but remained stubbornly rectangular, if a bit fluffier.

Fluffy mewed. Sherlock stroked its ears.

"Fluffy will miss you too," he drawled.

And that was all there was to be said.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think! I love reviews, and I keep your comments in mind. What do you think of the dynamic between Sherlock and Mycroft? Of course they're cousins instead of brothers here, and a lot younger-and also, Sherlock has a lot more cause for resentment. But I kept it quite similar to the show. (And sorry, I'll throw in some interaction between Mycroft and his parents, soon. That definitely needs clarifying.)**

**Also, I apologize for not getting to Diagon Alley this chapter. I have plans for next chapter :) Also, sorry Sherlock Potter doesn't have quite the same ring as Sherlock Holmes...I thought about changing it...and then I was like, naahh...**

**Until next time, Holmies. **


	3. Chapter 3

Hagrid's worry vanished the moment the pair set foot in Diagon Alley. Sherlock flitted about from one shop to the next, enthralled. Every few feet he would stop, transfixed by a jar of exploding ink or a cauldron advertised for special brewing capabilities, and utterly deaf to Hagrid's importunities to move on. Hagrid simply didn't understand; it wasn't the objects themselves that captivated Sherlock, despite their intrinsic lure. It was the _possibilities_. The variety and balance of spells powering these objects…Sherlock couldn't even imagine, didn't have the _data_. That, he vowed, would change, and soon.

He was examining a crystalline light refraction device in a shop window (ignoring an intricate and slowly revolving model of the solar system) when at last the groundskeeper seized him by the arm and dragged him away so they could visit Gringotts. Sherlock offered no resistance, although his barrage of questions (Does Transfiguration work on any substance? Were those real unicorn horns? How do you make a spell permanent? Does the lift generated by a broomstick depend solely on the strength of the charm?) didn't stop until they were passing through the double doors at the top of the bank's marble steps.

At his first sight of a goblin, Sherlock fell abruptly into the same silence that had alarmed Hagrid earlier…though now he traded his pensive mood for seething excitement. Here were nonhuman creatures of real intelligence. Considerably more intelligent, in fact, than most of the humans he had known (hardly a feat, but interesting nonetheless). Actually, the question of their evolved intelligence (divergent or convergent with humanity?) and their involvement in wizard finances (how easily this arrangement could transform into the sort of power play Mycroft relished) intrigued him far less than the thrilling, breakneck ride through the caverns. And even that excitement paled beside the mystery of the grubby little parcel that Hagrid had just tucked into a pocket of his overcoat.

"What is it?" Sherlock queried instantly, when they stepped into sunlight again. The fat bag of gold from his own vault may as well have been an afterthought.

"Can' tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously, patting the bulge in his coat. "Top secre' assignmen' from Dumbledore."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Hagrid didn't exactly seem the type to whom one entrusted confidential and probably valuable magical items for long periods of time. (The irony of this quite flew over his head as he trotted next to Hagrid's side; certainly no one had ever attributed any value to _him_). Hagrid's management of the package was of course temporary. It would return to Hogwarts and its headmaster as soon as possible. What an odd name, thought Sherlock, choosing to overlook this bit of irony also.

The really frustrating thing was that he could deduce nothing from his brief glimpse of the package itself, simply because he knew nothing of the world to which it belonged. Grubby, unobtrusive, the Leaky Cauldron all over again…and again Sherlock wondered, why bother? In this world oddities were overlooked as a matter of course; a witch hurrying by in violently magenta robes and a jeweled headpiece garnered far fewer stares than Uncle Vernon's business suit and neatly trimmed mustache would have done.

He was simply missing too many pieces. _Data, I need data._

If Hagrid's hurried suggestion that they shop for potions ingredients was meant partially as a distraction, it worked to magnificent effect.

Half an hour later, Hagrid dragged Sherlock away from a very browbeaten apothecary (who was starting to rethink his profession, as he didn't really know or care _why_ lionfish quills were so effective in paralyzing draughts, and was even less eager to know what an eleven-year-old wanted with them).

Sherlock and Hagrid left the shop with, as the latter patiently explained to his charge, at least twice the variety of ingredients he could possibly need for a first-year Potions class. Sherlock waved this off.

"I can hardly experiment with inadequate materials," he said. "Besides, I've thought of some variations on the combustions tests I was running last semester in the chemistry lab. Convention will only slow me down."

Hagrid looked as though he didn't know what 'combustion' meant, and was afraid to ask.

That particular experiment had gone so smoothly too, thought Sherlock sourly. Until the little snag that precipitated a totally unnecessary call to the fire department. Whatever Mycroft thought, not all of Sherlock's 'incidents' had anything to do with magic.

The trip to Flourish and Blotts resulted in much of the same.

"Blimey, Sherlock," Hagrid groaned from beneath a stack of the thick, finely-printed books that found their way into the nightmares of any N.E.W.T.-bound student. "I don' see 'ow any of this will fi' in yer trunk."

"Indetectable Extension Charm," Sherlock informed him, flipping through an embossed, leather-bound volume. "I looked it up before we left the shop. There's a footnote here on weight reduction…It might take me a couple of days to work it out, but I suppose I have plenty of…" His voice trailed off.

They were standing in front of the most fascinating shop yet. Sherlock didn't need the words "Magical Menagerie" plastered above the door to tell him what it was; the growls, squeaks, and hoots crowding out of the doorway told their own story.

"Er," said Hagrid roughly, shifting from foot to foot. "S'a bit earlier than I planned, but yer letter says yeh can have a pet, an' I wanted ter get yeh a bit o' a late birthday presen'. I was thinkin' an owl, they're dead useful. Thought we might try Eyelops…"

But the boy, eyes shining, had already disappeared inside the shop. Hagrid followed, stooping low under the doorframe and squinting in the half-darkness.

"Good afternoon," floated a voice next to his elbow, making him jump. A pinched-looking wizard wearing electric-blue robes and sporting an oily black mustache beamed up at him with the certainty of one who has exactly what his customers are looking for, even if they don't know what that is.

Sherlock moved dreamlike through the tiny shop. He could hardly see the walls; cages and terrariums crammed into every possible space and hung from the ceiling. The animals inside were a fantastic cross between the ordinary and his wildest dreams: jeweled tortoises, softly hooting barn owls with metallic claws, a luminous ferret whose gaze followed him across the store.

He came to a stop in the back corner beside the last cage. The creature within was silent, watchful, large green eyes fixed on his in a way that was at once inviting and apocalyptic. Sherlock fell in love at once.

"Ah," came the oily voice of the shopkeeper, who appeared silently at his side. "You like her?"

"Yes," Sherlock heard himself breathe, so quietly he wasn't certain he could have been heard. "What is she?"

The little wizard squinted past his pointed nose at the boy. This was not a question asked by most people regarding what, after all, appeared to be an ordinary cat. Then again, the boy didn't look as though 'ordinary' was his specialty either.

"She's a cat, of course," he said after a pause. "Mostly. Got some kneazle blood, too—intelligent, them, and rare. There's not many would notice the difference."

Sherlock studied the tiny paws, the long thick fur, glossy black but somehow _wild _that failed to conceal the taut muscle beneath. The creature was incredibly graceful, even for a cat. Her intelligent emerald eyes remained locked on Sherlock, and neither looked away as Hagrid fumbled his way to the back of the store, bent nearly double and letting out a stream of curses.

"She's beautiful, why is her cage shoved all the way back here?"

"Doesn't get along with most folks," the man chuckled. "Yowls loud enough to wake half the shop, sometimes…you're the first I've seen who she didn't take an instant dislike too."

"Locked in a cage, watching every idiot who walks by stick his fingers between the bars…I can hardly blame her," returned Sherlock drily.

Hagrid was in agreement. "There's few creatures yeh can't ge' along with, so long's yeh treat em righ'."

For a split second the smile plastered beneath the moustache wavered into something almost genuine. "I can let her go for six galleons."

Sherlock didn't even have to turn pleading eyes on Hagrid. Five minutes later he was strolling out of the Magical Menagerie, a warm, furry bundle purring contentedly in his arms.

* * *

Twenty minutes after that, the strange tingling rush of magic ran up his arm for the first time. The kneazle-cat twined round his legs in silent appreciation as red-and-gold sparks lit up the dusty corners of the little shop, and a man with irises like moonlight told a strange story.

* * *

Uncle Vernon was less than pleased.

"I don't recall offering refuge to any more strays," he snarled nastily; his twitching hands betraying the ever-present urge to throttle his nephew.

The cat halted on the landing, fixing him in her unwavering stare.

"Besides," added Aunt Petunia fitfully, with a nervous glance at her newest tenant. "Mycroft's allergic, aren't you, Mikey?"

Mycroft ground his teeth inaudibly.

"I think I can manage, mother. Just tell him to keep it locked in his room until term starts…or better yet, shut the thing outside," he added, as Sherlock shot daggers at him.

The cat gave him an approving stare and continued picking her way up the stairs to inspect her new quarters. Mycroft had no idea why his cousin had brought home a long-haired cat, of all things, if not to annoy him...Mum was right, his eyes were already watering…but it was fairly obvious that any attempts to get rid of the thing would end badly for all concerned.

More importantly, he had an alliance to forge.

* * *

"Acquired a familiar already? You're certainly jumping in with both feet."

Sherlock, who was reading, made no answer beyond lifting a smug hand to stroke the ears of the creature curled at his side.

"I never knew you were so narcissistic," Mycroft continued.

"Yes, you did."

"It's quite remarkable, really…it's…" Mycroft's thoughts drifted off as he stared at the thing. It was so obviously a perfectly normal black cat. Except that it wasn't.

"…almost a feline manifestation of yourself."

Sherlock actually glanced up at that, grinning. "Why Mycroft, how poetic of you."

"Not as poetic as the name you gave her," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock let the book drop to his chest. "It was fitting. Besides, Fluffy was already taken."

"Belinda," tried Mycroft slowly. "You know, I think I see it."

* * *

One month later, Sherlock was going mad with anticipation. His aunt and uncle felt much the same way, though for different reasons. Sherlock had spent half of the last month locked in his bedroom. Only Uncle Vernon's futile hopes that his new schoolbooks would distract Sherlock from "that blasted chemistry set", combined with the unsettling look in his nephew's eye, had prevented him from locking the boy's school supplies in the cupboard under the stairs. These hopes, however, proved unfounded when the explosions punctuating the night only increased in volume and frequency.

Uncle Vernon felt that the only way to handle this annoyance was to rid himself of another, namely the sight of his nephew's face. And so Sherlock had been forbidden to set foot outside his bedroom until leaving for Hogwarts.

Sherlock didn't mind this at all; the respite from Aunt Petunia's many chores left him with all the time he wanted to practice with his new wand and study his schoolbooks, occasionally scrawling improvements in the margins. He was flipping through a Charms book for a fireproofing spell (potion brewing, he'd discovered, was best not attempted on thick carpet) when Belinda raised her head and mewed loudly. Half a minute later, the door opened silently.

Suspiciously silently, thought Mycroft, edging through the doorway.

Sherlock looked up. Aside from Aunt Petunia's daily interruptions with food, it was the first time the door had been opened by anyone other than himself in several weeks. Since learning the Silencing Charm, he no longer had to oil the hinges in order that his nighttime forays go unnoticed.

"We're going," said Mycroft.

"Where?"

"You know where." Mycroft was wearing the dark vest and trousers with a long black jacket that Sherlock vaguely recognized as his new school uniform. He tried for a moment to remember where Mycroft was going. Somewhere boring.

"That's right. What's the school, again?"

"Eton."

Sherlock smiled. "Eatin'. How…fitting."

"Juvenile."

"Speaking of fitting, it's a pity you never got to try on the Smeltings uniform."

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "Two weeks in solitary have done nothing to improve your manners."

"They've done nothing to soften your heart. What will Mummy do without her Mikey-Wikey?"

Mycroft's choice of secondary educational institution had brought on one of the very few altercations in the Dursley household that was not caused by Sherlock. Mycroft had won, in the end, by testing into a King's Scholarship at Eton College. That he had done so without the knowledge or consent of either of his parents in no way lessened the achievement.

"Dad says that if he comes back to find the house burned down or the walls smeared with frog intestines, you will never again see the light of day."

Sherlock brightened at this. "Then you're all going?"

His cousin winced. "It wasn't my idea."

"And staying overnight?"

"Obviously."

There was a pause during which Sherlock struggled to hide an evil grin from Mycroft, and was saved when Uncle Vernon stuck his head in the door to reiterate his threats. Sherlock smirked throughout the entire lecture.

"And you'll be getting to the station on your own, boy!" barked Uncle Vernon when he was through. "Don't even think of leaving that…thing…here." He returned Belinda's baleful glare.

"To your tender loving care? Wouldn't dream of it. I pity the poor, helpless creature who's dropped on your doorstep—oh, wait. Bad subject."

Mycroft watched his father's face flourish a deeper purple and reflected that Sherlock might have been spot on about the blood pressure. He also realized that he had missed his last opportunity to ask Sherlock about his parents before leaving for school…but unless the right moment presented itself, it would do no good anyway. He would see his cousin again in nine months. In the meantime, he had research to do. Not all of the academic variety.

Some of it Sherlock would be doing for him, although he didn't know it.

Mycroft lingered a moment longer as Vernon's heavy tread retreated.

"_Can_ you get to London on your own? And find the platform?" He remembered the implausible platform number and wondered whether wizards studied higher mathematics. Heaven forbid they find out about imaginary numbers.

"I can handle it." Sherlock didn't sound worried.

"Well, then…see you. And your…pets."

Mycroft's eyes scanned the room, looking for the familiar salmon pink.

"Don't bother," Sherlock interjected. "You won't have to say goodbye to Fluffy after all."

"I—what?"

Sherlock was quite certain he was not imagining the note of panic in Mycroft's voice. He smiled sweetly.

"Belinda doesn't like it. I packed it for you."

Mycroft cursed inwardly, picturing his trunk buried beneath a small mountain of overnight bags and Mum's hair supplies in the luggage compartment of the car. Suddenly the lingering guilt over the bugs he'd planted in Sherlock's own trunk vanished completely.

He closed his eyes. "Do you mean to say that a bright pink, mysteriously meowing…"

"Mike!" sounded Aunt Petunia's voice from downstairs. Mycroft and Sherlock winced in unison.

The former managed to contain his rage just enough to offer his cousin a goodbye smile. Sincerity would have been rather too much to ask for.

"Farewell, cousin."

"Laters," replied Sherlock, flopped on his back and again absorbed in his book.

"I was experimenting with reinforcing the animation charm," Mycroft heard his cousin remark absently as the door swung shut somewhat harder than intended. "It does more than meow, now…"

* * *

**A/N: So here's chapter three! I apologize profusely for the long wait. I recently got a job, and obviously that eats into most of my time. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed Diagon Alley. In case you are wondering, no I did not forget about Sherlock learning of his parents' fate. Also, I promise that this story isn't just about Sherlock and Mycroft...I simply love writing their conversations.  
Not all of the scenes from the books will be done in this level of detail, and though I will use it as a guide I am NOT planning to simply rehash the Harry Potter plotline. That would be boring, and we all know what happens when Sherlock gets bored. (the wall had it coming). **

**I chose Eton College for Mycroft (c'mon, did you really think he would go to Smeltings?) because it has an illustrious history and has been called "the chief nurse of England's statesmen". It is, dare I say it, rather fitting for Mycroft. (Disclaimer that I don't know a dang thing about the ages of students there or how the educational system in the UK differs from the US. Either way, Mycroft going to high school or even college at thirteen doesn't seem like much of a stretch. I wanted him older than Sherlock, but the canonical seven-year age difference would have been a bit much). **

**Interestingly, Wikipedia informs me that the 1985 movie ****_Young Sherlock Holmes_**** was filmed at Eton and written by Chris Columbus, director of the first two Harry Potter films. And young Sherlock's rival was apparently a student named Dudley...**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So sorry for the long wait, guys. My writing method is not always chronological, and I've been working on many scenes and shaping the storyline for this story. This chapter lacks some filler scenes but you all know the Hogwarts story and settings. If any inspiration dawns for the missing scenes, I'll be sure to go back and fill them in! I'm also re-posting the other three chapters with some slight edits, smoothing out some of the errors and sentences that lack grace.**

**This isn't all I've been working on, more Harry Potter/Sherlock crossovers will be on the way. Thanks for your reviews, they're very encouraging :)**

* * *

The journey to King's Cross station went surprisingly smoothly. In the metaphorical sense only.

"Yes, we are," Sherlock insisted.

Belinda's stare didn't waver.

"You have no faith in me."

Belinda subjected the moth-eaten carpet in his arms to the look of disdain that only cats and extraordinarily talented professors can manage. Sherlock sighed. He didn't have much faith in it either.

"I think I'd rather fall out of the sky halfway across London if Plan B is the only alternative."

The look Belinda gave him this time was strikingly reminiscent of Aunt Petunia the time he'd set the parlor curtains on fire. Sherlock conceded bad-temperedly that she was probably right, he had no idea how strong the Hover charm he'd placed on the carpet was, and steering would be touch-and-go at best. Besides, it kept flickering in and out of sight.

Plan B was simpler and altogether more sensible, but on the upside, it involved stealing from Uncle Vernon. It was almost worth it, thought Sherlock, slipping several twenty-pound notes—hardly a month's worth of Mycroft's allowance—from the "secret" hiding place under his uncle's mattress. Even Muggle transportation was better than walking.

"There'll be _people_," he grumbled to Belinda, who had followed him. "Mindless chatter everywhere. I won't be able to think."

_Better than crashing into Big Ben._

"Shut up." Sherlock flung a few notebooks and a brass telescope into his trunk. "I knew I should've bought you a cat carrier."

Belinda looked suitably annoyed and Sherlock turned away to hide one of his rare smiles. His familiar didn't relish the idea of taking the bus anymore than he did. But what choice did they have? It was worth any price to escape Privet Drive.

After several tries, Sherlock had indeed succeeded in lightening his trunk to a fraction of its original weight. But as it was still large and unwieldy and had no wheels, and by the time he had wrestled the thing through the front door he didn't fancy dragging it the six blocks to the bus stop on his own. Especially not while carrying the old bookbag in which Belinda hid, curled warmly against his back.

With a surreptitious glance around the neighboring houses, Sherlock pulled his wand out of his sleeve.

"_Reducio,"_ he whispered, and after a trembling moment the trunk shrank down a few centimeters.

Sherlock employed a few of Uncle Vernon's choicest swear words and was about to try again when a heavy weight pushed off his shoulder.

_"Belinda!"_

She sprang into the street before him, and as Sherlock moved to go after her, one of his too-large trainers caught on a corner of the trunk and he sprawled, wand clattering into the street.

"Belinda, what the—?"

There was no time to finish the question; the predatory breathing of an engine had materialized from nowhere and wheels were bearing down on him. With hitherto unsuspected reflexes, Sherlock shoved himself sideways, rolled. The next second he found himself in the gutter, brushing dried leaves out of his hair. Belinda was perched on his trunk wearing an expression that could only be described as smug while the enormous vehicle lumbered to a stop next to them. Sherlock sat and hastily retrieved his wand, adrenaline still shooting through his limbs.

"Attempted murder?" he spat at Belinda. "So the cat carrier joke was a bit much, but not even _Mycroft_ has ever taken revenge this fa…"

He trailed off as a skinny, acne-ridden youth in a conductor's cap leapt down from the brilliantly purple bus with a flourish. Purple. Surely, no sane _([seyn], adjective, free from mental derangement, see also 'boring') _adult would drive a vehicle like that unless…

"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus, transportation for any stranded witch or wizard!"

Belinda looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back.

"You could have just _told_ me," he complained.

* * *

The boy didn't even turn as the door opened. Behind half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore blinked at the small figure perched on his chair, oversize hat sunk over his eyes. His thin arms, lanky for a child, were crossed stubbornly over his chest.

Dumbledore let the door close with a soft 'thud' and waited. After a moment the boy pulled off the hat with a scowl and set it none too gently on the desk. Despite having been entirely absorbed in conversation, he betrayed only a small flicker of surprise at seeing the headmaster in the doorway.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore gravely, sweeping across the room and conjuring up a large, overstuffed velvet armchair from the air. Sherlock's eyes followed the wand movement, suddenly intent. Interesting how little concerned the boy seemed that he'd been caught breaking into the headmaster's office. Even his father hadn't managed that until third year.

"I would ask you to take a seat, but I see that you already have."

Sherlock scowled.

"No doubt you hoped to be gone by the time I arrived," said Dumbledore, in an understanding tone. "But the Sorting Hat generally gets so little social interaction, you know—and you're probably not used to anyone willing to sustain an argument for long."

The boy's scowl grew more pronounced. "It's still wrong," he said.

"Indeed." Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles and began polishing them thoughtfully. "And why is that?"

Sherlock was torn between trepidation at being caught and angry suspicion that he wasn't being taken seriously. In the end, neither won out. He slumped back in the chair.

"I _said_ it should put me in Ravenclaw. Or give me my own house. Then it said I was ambitious and manipulative—as _if_, that's Mycroft all over—and that I don't care about knowledge the way Ravenclaws do. Which is a stupid generalization in and of itself…I should have known, you lot have _magic_ and all you've done is create more efficient methods of compartmentalizing people…"

Dumbledore listened carefully to the boy's rant, which lasted several minutes and contained more than a few accurate and unflattering observations about the Wizarding world (and the Sorting system in particular.) As Sherlock paused for breath, Dumbledore replaced his glasses carefully on his long nose.

"Are you?" he asked mildly. Sherlock was taken aback.

"Am I what?"

"Ambitious and manipulative."

The boy crossed his arms again.

"Hardly. I don't bother with people and I don't care what they think."

"Then why do you care which House you are sorted into?"

Sherlock scowled; apparently he didn't have a good answer. Dumbledore answered his own question.

"I suppose it's understandable, given that you'll be spending seven years there."

The boy gave a bitter laugh, but stopped abruptly. Too late.

"You don't believe you will remain here for seven years?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Sherlock mumbled something under his breath. The headmaster had to lean in to catch the words, "No one else wants me for that long."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Perhaps that is their loss," he suggested. Sherlock's only response was a loud snort.

"What about ambition?"

"What?"

"As a Slytherin. You don't believe you are ambitious?"

"No," said Sherlock wearily. "Power, influence…I wouldn't bother, even if people…I don't bother. It's boring."

"There are all sorts of ambition."

"Yes, obviously. And yet everyone assumes that all Slytherins are aiming to become the next Dark Lord." He rubbed the thin scar on his forehead in frustration.

Dumbledore caught the gesture and felt a familiar twist of conscience…but now, on his first night at Hogwarts, was not the time to tell the boy. He asked his next question, watching carefully for Sherlock's reaction.

"Are you?"

"Dull. You want someone to take over the world, ask my cousin, he never _stops_ manipulating people. I only exist to make his life more difficult."

"Your cousin…" Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "He's not a wizard, is he?"

"Like that's going to stop him," said Sherlock darkly.

Dumbledore chuckled. "So you wanted to be in Ravenclaw? I am afraid I am inclined to agree with the Sorting Hat on this one, I don't see Ravenclaw suiting you at all."

"I didn't _want_ Ravenclaw. I wanted to be on my own, which would apparently violate your caste system."

"Our 'caste system' is designed so that students won't be on their own. So that you can meet friends similar to yourself."

Sherlock avoided his eyes.

"There is no one similar to me." The closest was Mycroft, he thought with a shudder.

"Nevertheless, you need a family away from home."

"Yes, because thoughts of 'home' and 'family' conjure up such warm, fuzzy feelings. At least Ravenclaw wouldn't be as full of idiots. Maybe," he added doubtfully.

"Hmm." Dumbledore was gazing off into space. "Surely that depends on your definition. There are many types of idiot." And many more types of intelligence.

He hadn't meant to affront the boy, but Dumbledore was realizing with mild trepidation that Sherlock saw most things in an antagonizing light. In fact, he rather seemed to enjoy it.

"I didn't realize it was custom for the headmaster to insult his students."

The headmaster met his gaze. "No, that's your job, isn't it?"

For the first time, Sherlock almost smiled.

"I suppose that instead, we could discuss how and why you broke into my office."

"You already know why, and as to how…" Sherlock scoffed. "I'm surprised you haven't offered me a _sherbet lemon_ yet."

"Apologies." Dumbledore handed over the tin, trying to hide his amusement as Sherlock scowled again, then took one. "That's quite a connection to make on your first night."

The boy shrugged. "I saw you offer them to Professors Snape and McGonagall, to annoy them. I figured it was worth a shot. It had to be something wizard children wouldn't guess." He'd been surprised, actually, when the apparently lifeless gargoyle had responded to one of his idle guesses. He would have expected to find the headmaster's rooms better secured.

"And how did you discover the location of my office?"

"Bribed a portrait. It wasn't difficult."

"How do you bribe a portrait?" asked Dumbledore interestedly. The boy hardly seemed the artistic type, but you never knew with Potters…

However, Sherlock seemed to think he'd revealed enough. Dumbledore sighed and leaned back.

"Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms," he mused. "Did you know your mother was a gifted poet?"

Sherlock scowled, apparently uncertain how to respond. Dumbledore hid another smile. "I do believe it's bedtime, Mr. Potter. Get to your dormitory, and don't get sidetracked along the way. You are not the first to question your Sorting, and I will tolerate your curiosity for tonight, but rule-breaking is not accepted at Hogwarts." He fought to keep a straight face, wondering how long it would be before young Mr. Potter met the Weasley twins. "I have enjoyed our conversation, and wish you all the best in Slytherin House."

Sherlock nodded sullenly and walked to the door, shooting a curious glance at Fawkes along the way.

"Oh, and Mr. Potter…"

The blue eyes were twinkling again.

"I realize that you have not yet met your Head of House, but…do please refrain from antagonizing Professor Snape."

As experiments went it wasn't particularly ethical, but the insight gained could be valuable, and there wouldn't be any love lost between those two anyway…Albus drifted into thought. If Mr. Potter reacted to risk the way he reacted to rules…

The headmaster was already beginning to regret some of his earlier announcements. He made a mental note to tell Filch to station Mrs. Norris on the third floor.

After all, not even the Weasley twins had broken into the headmaster's office before their second year.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I want to apologize for taking so (ridiculously) long to post a new chapter. I have bits and pieces of every year written, all ready to converge in my head. The hard bit is keeping things realistic while not allowing Sherlock to solve the mystery within the first three days of his arrival at Hogwarts. So there will be elements of that, but I'm also gonna focus a lot on Sherlock's fellow students. Keep your eyes peeled for familiar faces...**

** This chapter is a bit short, but you can look forward to the meeting of two serpents.**

...

"_Potter!_"

"Sherlock Potter!"

"Did you see him?"

"Have you met him?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Day one, and Sherlock's low expectations regarding his classmates were already well on their way to fulfillment. He supposed he'd been lucky for the interim of peace and quiet he'd achieved thus far; the other boys in the dormitory had (mercifully) been asleep by the time he had traced their steps to the dungeons the night before. It had occurred to him only after leaving Dumbledore's office that the instruction "get to your dormitory" had been accompanied by no directions. Somehow he doubted that this had been absentmindedness on the headmaster's part. Very well. At least they weren't setting the grade curve too low to begin with.

Sherlock remembered noticing the stream of silver and green move toward a descending staircase on the left of the Great Hall entrance, while he himself had ducked into an upward-flowing current of scarlet and gold, making himself invisible with the aid of a borrowed scarf. Only one sandy-haired first year had glanced his way in mild curiosity, distracted by the time Sherlock found an opportunity to duck into an abandoned corridor and explore.

Most people seemed to regard them as nearly invisible, but to Sherlock, speaking to the portraits lining the corridors was the most fascinating part of the evening. They, in turn, seemed flattered enough by the unaccustomed attention to tell him anything he wanted to know. And thus it was that he'd found his way to the headmaster's office far earlier than he could have hoped. Though in retrospect his timing could have been better.

Retracing his steps to the Great Hall (following an infuriating round of banter with the mangy hat and then the headmaster) should have been simplicity itself. The moving staircases, however, had other ideas. Despite Dumbledore's instructions, Sherlock found himself taking a rather meandering route. _Hardly my fault,_ he reasoned, though the broad grin pasted across his face refused to disappear. He hadn't had this much fun since Diagon Alley.

Once Sherlock paused as he passed by a gloomy corridor, certain he heard growling. His feet were already turning in that direction when a sharp echo of footsteps forestalled any immediate inquiries, so Sherlock quickly marked the place in his head and dashed around a corner before any staff came into view.

Passing the darkened Great Hall, Sherlock bounded down wide, carpet-muffled steps. Three flights deposited him in a long hallway that sloped upward to his right. The passage was warmly lit by burning stone lamps and smelled faintly, invitingly, of vanilla and cloves. In the other direction, candles glowed in elaborate metal wrought sconces, doing little to fight the chill rising from another stone staircase. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went left.

Following the impressions left by his classmates' feet on the carpet was simplicity itself. Sherlock had to duck behind a long curtain only once, as a silvery, blood-stained, staring ghost drifted down through the ceiling and skimmed along the carpet for several meters before dropping through it. The traces of footprints ended a few turns later, at a blank stretch of wall. The passage was marked only by a large emerald-green tapestry with a sort of Celtic tree design set in the opposite wall. Sherlock ran two fingers along the smooth surface, supposing that it would open to some sort of password. There were no portraits in this hallway, and his chances of making a correct guess were negligible at best.

_"Alohamora!" _he tried under his breath, rapping his wand on the wall, but it did no more than expected. Stepping away, however, Sherlock noticed a small, curving pattern above the baseboard; not an entirely blank wall after all. It wasn't until he had leaned down and was tracing it with his finger that Sherlock realized the pattern depicted tiny snakes with rhythmically intertwined bodies. The longer he stared, the more they seemed almost to twist and move before his eyes.

There came a flash of wandlight and the light thud of two sets of footsteps around the corner by which he had come. As Sherlock turned toward the sound, making the split-second decision whether to run or conceal himself, his eye caught by the border of the tapestry behind him. There again was depicted the twining pattern, the reflected wandlight catching in the mirrored eyes of a hundred tiny serpents...

_"Open,_" Sherlock hissed, hardly knowing what made him say it. At once the wall vanished, before him gaped a grand marble archway. Sherlock slid through as footsteps and soft laughter rounded the corner, and the doorway sealed itself behind him.

...

Sherlock awoke to familiar green eyes blinking down at him.

"About time," he stroked Belinda's ears. "I haven't seen you since we stepped off the boat. I suppose you know every inch of the castle now?"

Belinda mewed. Sherlock grinned. "I'll take that as affirmation."

Judging by the cacophony around him, Sherlock guessed that most of his new housemates were already up and half-dressed. Plagued more by his racing thoughts than by the uncomfortable drowsiness of overeating, Sherlock himself hadn't dropped into bed until nearly midnight, slipping past the murmuring occupants of a half-dozen beds until he located his own trunk at the foot of the four-poster nearest the window. Then he'd lain awake for an hour or so, drawing the curtains and flicking silent spells at the ceiling. One or two simple charms to ensure privacy from his dormmates, and the others for the mere pleasure of watching sparks curl through the darkness, accompanied by the gentle lapping sound of water.

Shrugging into his own, now green-trimmed robes, Sherlock pulled back his bedside curtains with a lazy flick of his wand. Several boys were fastening their cloaks with small silver pins—coats of arms, Sherlock guessed, remembering the elaborate tapestry outside the common room. Family was evidently important here. One or two of the boys were still snoring, but he guessed that most had been woken by the bedside lamps flickering on at seven o'clock. Certainly the morning light wavering through the window wouldn't have done it—Sherlock cast a glance at the glass to confirm his previous night's guess. Sure enough, what little light came through was filtered through murky lakewater.

The muted conversation between the boys rose in volume and excitement as they compared wands and shoved books into schoolbags. Sherlock gave Belinda a final rub behind the ears and moved towards the door, ignoring the chatter—that is, until he was arrested by a thin, haughty voice behind him.

"So it's true, what everyone was saying yesterday on the train. Sherlock Potter has come to Hogwarts."

Sherlock paused in the doorway. Briefly he considered ignoring the challenge, if challenge it was—but why not have this conversation now, and in relative privacy. Gather some data on his fellow Slytherins, whose stares the night before had ranged from familiar admiration to outright hostility.

So Sherlock pivoted toward the owner of the voice. His appearance, unsurprisingly, matched his tone…posh, arrogant, sure of himself. Like Sherlock, the boy was tall for his age but rather thin, with white-blonde hair sleeked back from a pale, pointed face. He had taken up the bed nearest the doorway—_or furthest from the lake_—thought Sherlock in mild contempt, and was flanked by a couple of other boys who could have given Uncle Vernon a run for his money in both IQ and sheer bulk. They were wearing identical, gargoyle-like grins. Sherlock winced at the sight, unprepared for exposure to so much stupid so early in the morning.

The boy stepped forward with his hand outstretched, and Sherlock noticed the silver clasp pinning his cloak beneath his chin. He'd been right about the coat of arms; this one contained an elaborately wrought 'M' with crossed wands and what looked like peacock feathers fanning behind it. The cloak, too, was finely made, and edged in silver, and the dark wood of the wand handle poking from his pocket already had a touch of wear. All in all, he couldn't have screamed _"Pureblood!" _any louder if it had been stamped across his forehead.

"Name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Sherlock considered for a moment and then extended his own hand. Briefly.

"Sherlock."

"Bit unexpected to find a Potter Sorted into Slytherin."

"Oh? What would you expect?"

The boy shrugged, lip curling in a slight sneer. "Gryffindor." Several of the other boys let out low jeers, and Sherlock felt his own mouth twist in disgust—honestly, this was supposed to be one of the intelligent Houses? Draco evidently mistook Sherlock's expression for due contempt for the Lions rather than the banality of his own Housemates. His pointed chin lifted slightly as he surveyed Sherlock in approval.

Draco gestured toward the sound of footsteps pounding down to the common room. "Most of our families have been in Slytherin for centuries. What's your story, then, Potter?"

Sherlock was turning away, already bored. "I suspect you've heard it."

"'Course, except where you've been for the past ten years. Lots of rumors flying around after You-Know-Who—"

"Yes, you'd know all about those, wouldn't you?"

Malfoy flushed.

"I'd tread a bit more carefully if I were you, Potter. I think you'll find that at Hogwarts some friendships are more…advantageous than others."

"Thanks, but I consider myself married to my schoolwork," Sherlock drawled. Malfoy flushed a deeper pink.

"Final word, Potter?"

"Really, Draco. I fail to see what I could possibly be expected to glean from friendship with a narcissistic mama's boy with a pet eagle owl, pathological fear of the dark, and a passing knowledge of the most basic hexes known to wizardkind…I'd really have thought your Death Eater parents would have trained you more thoroughly," Sherlock added as an afterthought. He deflected Draco's curse with a lazy slash of his wand. "Delighted to have made your acquaintance. Good day."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Please don't hate me for taking so long with updates. **

***Checks calendar***

**Scratch that, you're at perfect liberty to hate me, but I love you all. And reviews. I especially love reviews. Hint hint.**

**If I ever take so heinously long to update again, go distract yourselves with my other Sherlock/HP oneshots and chapter fics. I think you'll especially like "Deductions and Dementors" and "A Strange Sort of Fate". Those aren't kidlock, but I can promise they're magical. :)**

* * *

By the end of his first week, Sherlock (or rather, the miniscule portion of his mind that took notice) thought that no one could ever hate him worse than Draco Malfoy.

He was wrong.

Which would have been momentous enough in and of itself, but as it happened, he was _spectacularly_ wrong.

* * *

Friday was an important day for John Watson. He and Neville finally succumbed to the practical necessity of tailing someone who knew actually where they were going though the labyrinthine castle, and as a result made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.

"Will you _quit_ that!" huffed John in exasperation, as Neville whipped behind a banister for the third time. Hermione had paused at the foot of the final staircase, ostensibly to adjust her bookbag, but John had a nasty suspicion that she was beginning to cotton on to her utility as navigator for the rest of the first years. There was a slight amused tilt to her eyebrow as the boys edged around her into the Hall, and it seemed to say, _Who said girls can't keep a map in their heads?_

John groaned to himself. It hadn't been _him_, that was for sure. Vaguely he wondered whether Ron regretted it yet. He and Seamus were probably lost in the passage behind the vanishing bookcases again.

Neville nudged John out of his thoughts. "Scary, that one," he muttered, with a backward jerk of his chin. "I told you we should've followed Ron's brothers instead…"

"What, and taken our lives in our hands?" John dropped his voice as they approached the Gryffindor table. "They'd probably lead us straight into the Forbidden Forest…or, I dunno, the lake…"

"Without leaving the castle?" Neville joked nervously.

"Wouldn't put it past them."

They seated themselves at the Gryffindor table, a cautious distance from Fred and George. Across the table sat a cloud of steam wafting from an oversized mug of coffee. John squinted through it and recognized a curly-haired third-year from the train.

"Morning, Sally," he greeted. "Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack with that much caffeine at age thirteen, or just stunt your growth?"

"We're not all midgets, Watson," she grinned. "Managed to find your way without following Granger yet?"

"I don't understand how she knows her way around this death-trap of a boarding school already," John moaned as he reached for a platter of scrambled eggs. "Unless there's a map in _Hogwarts, A History_. Wish GPS worked at Hogwarts."

Sally grimaced her agreement. "What've you got today?"

Neville's round face paled as he scanned his schedule.

"Double Potions with the Slytherins, first thing."

"Potions?" A familiar voice interrupted the conversation. The next moment its owner materialized in a cloud of freckles from behind a couple of burly sixth years. Ron, Dean and Seamus slid into the last three empty seats at the end of the table. "That's Snape's class, isn't it?"

"You three got lost in the passage behind the bookcases again, didn't you?" Sally snickered. "How's that superior sense of direction working out?"

Dean elbowed Seamus. Ron merely glared, sipping at his pumpkin juice in a valiant attempt at dignified silence until John took mercy and returned to the topic at hand.

"Snape teaches Potions, yeah, why?"

"Snape's head of Slytherin, isn't he?" Ron tipped half a jug of syrup over his plate and stabbed three or four waffles at once. "They say he always favors them—we'll be able to see if it's true."

* * *

"Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"A systematic grilling regarding your intentions," said Sherlock without really thinking. "At least, that's what I got when I tried it."

He only looked around when the class tittered. Truth be told, Sherlock's attention, which should have been drawn to the imposing figure at the head of the room, had instead caught on a shelf full of bottled Murtlap tentacles in various stages of decay. Fascinating. They'd come in quite handy for healing potions, he thought, mildly impressed. _How _exactly did you attain that level of putrefaction? Aside from sheer force of personality, that is.

Sherlock blinked. He'd made a joke, even if it was only in his head. Well, it wasn't as though anyone else would've understood it anyway; although to judge from the reactions to the melodramatic little welcoming speech he hadn't listened to, they would have appreciated it if they had.

Snape scowled to demonstrate a not-so-subtle displeasure with this response (or perhaps he could read minds; nothing could be ruled out at this point), but pointedly ignored a girl on the Gryffindor side of the room who sat forward eagerly, hand straining upward.

"One more chance, Potter."

Sherlock sighed and dredged the question back up from his fading short-term deletion queue. "Draught of Living Death."

Mycroft, he had discovered, was _such _a drama queen about poisons. Even if they didn't technically kill.

Professor Snape raised an unwilling eyebrow. Correct, apparently. Though if Sherlock thought that was the end of it, he was mistaken.

"Potter, where would you go if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

_Why would I want to?_ Sherlock refrained from asking, a faint echo of the headmaster's instructions filtering into recollection. His brow furrowed slightly. Obviously Dumbledore knew something he didn't; it was already fairly plain that this man despised him. And was that a trick question?

Something caught at the corner of his eye. Might as well give a rational answer.

"The potions cupboard?" he replied cautiously. There were more choked giggles scattered across the room. A tousle-haired boy from the Gryffindor side of the room caught his eye and grinned, though he dropped his gaze fairly quickly.

Snape swept to a stop in front of his new least-favorite-student and leveled a dangerous glare. "What was that?" The tone was silk. Poisoned, that is. Now _there _was an experiment idea…no, leave it, _concentrate…_

Choosing to obey the (admittedly small) portion of brain housing his survival instinct, Sherlock shook away the distraction and snorted. "Sir, by the time you needed a bezoar, time constraints would leave us a bit beyond the goat-slaughtering stage, don't you think?"

Smothered giggles across the dungeon. Sherlock reluctantly concluded that his survival instinct possibly less intact than previously thought; Snape obviously thought the same. The coal-black eyes were boring into his.

Emphasis on _boring. _Dear Merlin, what was wrong with him today? Either the palpable aura of menace was doing something to his sanity, or Sherlock was more bored than he thought.

Bored...no, that didn't make sense. Whatever this week had been, it _wasn't_ tedious. The castle alone was enough to keep him busy for weeks, and when you added magic into the mix...not boring. And he had Belinda. Merlin knew she was better company than the idiots he called classmates, apparently capable of nothing more than stares and whispers-or, in Malfoy's case, outright hostility. Still, Sherlock all-too-frequently found himself brushing off an irksome, familiar feeling that rose up whenever he sat by himself in the Great Hall, or paused for a moment to adjust his bookbag and heard footsteps and laughter flow by in the corridors. Even here, something was missing.

"Let's try one more, Potter, without the cheek, unless you're aiming to spend your second week in detention. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl, who was now positively hopping up and down in her seat. Another trick question, but an obvious, dull one this time. Which meant it was safer, probably, not to answer, but…

"Linguistics. Pointless redundancy if you ask me." Hah, he'd made another pun. Aloud this time. And it had gone entirely unappreciated, to judge from Sherlock's new least-favorite-professor's expression. People said _he_ had no sense of humor.

'Safe' had never really been his thing anyway.

* * *

**Another quick note: Planning to loosely follow the HP plotline, but obviously I'm not paralleling every scene from the book because I don't have that much time on my hands. But if there is a specific scene or character interaction that you want, let me know and I may be able to work it in.**


	7. Chapter 7

Eleven-year-olds, Hermione Granger was quickly learning, were the same _everywhere._

The letter delivered earlier that summer had, she thought, been a confirmation of everything she had known for a long time. She was different. Despite the fact that she always knew more, cared more, than the other kids at school, the few friendships she'd managed were more of acquaintanceships. It was hard to be close to people with no apparent desire to engage intellectually in _anything._ Even more impossible to feign interest in the things she was meant to care about—clothes and boys, apparently.

_I'm eleven years old, _she had fumed a thousand times, suppressing a sigh. _What a dull charade._

And no end in sight. Heaven knew it would only get worse as they got older.

Everything made sense when the letter came. Surely magic was the answer, the difference between herself and them, the reason she never fit in. But that would change now. It seemed that her heart had taken up a new, wilder rhythm from the moment she had first cracked her new schoolbooks. An entire _world_ had suddenly opened up within the smooth pages, full of magic and adventure and, best of all, people like her.

And Hogwarts was everything she had imagined it would be. With the exception of the students.

* * *

By their third Charms class, tensions between Ron and Hermione had built up to the point that John really wasn't certain who would snap first. That Flitwick paired the two of them to practice the levitation charm they were learning was just plain bad luck.

Sure enough, it wasn't fifteen minutes into class before they were snarling at each other. Ron's frustration with the charm did not help matters.

_"Wingardium Leviosa!" _he bellowed, brandishing his wand with such force that John, sitting across the aisle, ducked instinctively. Hermione seized Ron's wrist before he could do anyone a permanent injury.

"You're saying it wrong," John heard her snap. "It's Wing-_gar_-dium Levi-_o_-sa, make the _gar _nice and long." Ron was opening his mouth to retort when a quiet voice from behind interrupted.

"You're both wrong, actually."

Hermione scraped her chair around so quickly that John could have sworn he saw sparks flying from the stone floor. "Excuse me?"

The boy sitting behind them—tall, pale, and dark-haired—had somehow escaped being paired with anyone. To judge from the depths of smugness in his expression, this was likely an engineered omission. He was slightly familiar—John remembered catching a glimpse of him on the train, and later at the feast there had been murmurs of surprise and even a few gasps of outrage when the Sorting Hat called _"Slytherin!"_ He remembered asking why, and Sally had leaned excitedly across the table to answer. "That's Sherlock _Potter,_ haven't you heard? And he's a _Slytherin!_" As though that should explain everything.

And perhaps it had—the whispers, the rumors, the distaste on the boy's face as he watched the trimmings on his robe change to green. Not to mention the distance he'd so far maintained from the rest of the students.

Despite living in an offshoot of Diagon Alley, John's family kept largely to themselves. John himself certainly hadn't given any thought to the fact that the famous Boy-Who-Lived was now Hogwarts age, much less in his own year…but he'd heard the tale of You-Know-Who's downfall enough to empathize with the boy. If John had had whispers surrounding him from the moment he set foot on the train, he'd want everyone to sod off too.

Aside from the brief, bewildering exchange with Snape in Potions the other day, Potter had kept his head down in classes as well. Now, however, he was smirking openly at the expression on Hermione's face.

"Pronunciation has nothing to do with the potency of the spell," he said, in a tone dripping even more condescension than Hermione's had. "Unless you prefer to handicap yourself by directing your energy into meaningless detail. The incantation itself is merely a tool for beginners and inferior minds to focus their magic." His raised eyebrow seemed to ask, "Which are you?"

Hermione straightened, and John could have sworn he heard lightning crackle in her bushy hair.

"For your information," she began hotly, "the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1—"

"—was written for the likes of _them_." Sherlock indicated the rest of the class with a disinterested wave of his hand. John glanced around at his classmates: some shouting at the top of their lungs, as Ron had been, others red in the face from the effort of trying to force magic through their wands. Flitwick hurried to and fro, correcting posture and offering advice, but it would be at least ten minutes before he came their way. John's own feather hadn't budged yet; might as well see if this arrogant prick knew what he was talking about.

"What makes you think pronunciation doesn't matter?" he cut in, before the boy's Cheshire cat grin could succeed in fraying the last threads of Hermione's patience.

"Logic," said the boy simply, twirling his wand. "And experimentation. Research has shown that nonverbal spells, when performed by a competent wizard,"—pronouncing 'competent' in the same tone that most people reserved for 'diamond encrusted vial of phoenix tears'—"are just as effective, or more so, than verbal ones. This fact provides weighty evidence that beyond a certain point, the verbal use of a Latin derivative is not only unnecessary, but obstructive to unlocking more powerful magic. When the word itself becomes a point of focus it should be regarded as a crutch. A distraction."

"If that's the case, why haven't any of the professors mentioned it?" Hermione was haughtily skeptical.

"There are a good many things the professors won't mention to first-years, Granger. I'd look beyond the assigned material if I were you."

Hermione stiffened.

"You think I don't—"

But the boy merely waved his hand again.

"Just because it hasn't been assigned _yet _doesn't mean it won't be. I'm not talking about memorizing the Standard Book of Spells. It may come as a shock, but those are _standard. _There are things most people never bother to find out about magic."

John cut in before Potter could antagonize Hermione any more. "Hang on, are you saying you can make that feather float without the incantation?"

A smile played around the boy's lips. "I could."

"That's ridiculous." Hermione folded her arms. "You're a first-year."

Sherlock ignored this. "I could, but I think my point might be better established by…"

"Let's see it, then," broke in Ron, redirecting his smirk. Much as he had enjoyed watching Hermione taken down a few pegs, John could tell he was beginning to consider her the lesser of two evils.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged and pointed his wand at the feather. "Fly," he said without preamble. It lifted obligingly off the desk and swung gently in the air before their eyes.

Hermione was staring. "That's…"

"Impossible," stuttered Ron. "That's bloody impossible." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "It's some sort of trick."

"The _trick_ is not getting distracted by an arbitrary jumble of syllables," retorted Sherlock. Without lowering his wand, he swung his feet up on the desk and buried his nose in a book, clearly through with the conversation. John watched the feather drift higher and higher toward the ceiling.

Hermione turned back around without another word and lost herself in thought for the remainder of class. Although she did manage an unenthusiastic (but still highly effective) _Wingardium Leviosa _when Flitwick came by.

The lunch bell rang and Ron was still fuming.

"She's a nightmare, honestly," Hermione heard him snarl to Dean and Seamus as they filed out of the classroom. "He's the same. No wonder neither of them have any _friends_."

The words were a blow she wasn't prepared for, and Hermione faltered, choking back a sob. Before the tears could spill from her eyes, however, another voice came from behind.

"Weasley's an idiot, ignore him. It's like I said, anyone can pick up on the basics, but no one bothers to _understand _them."

The Slytherin boy offered her half a smile before disappearing down a corridor that most certainly did not lead to the Great Hall. Hermione felt herself halt, tears forgotten, staring at the space where he had stood.

_No one bothers to understand._

Was that an offer of _friendship, _or a dare?

In Hermione Granger's experience, the world held far too few of either. Challenge bloody accepted, then.

* * *

**A/N: I feel that this is a good point to mention that I may be going back and making changes/additions from time to time. I'll let you know if there's ever anything major. Just blame my idiotic writing process. It goes something like this. **

**Left brain: Alright, let's sit down and hammer out this story. 1st year. So we need to cover the basic plot points of...**

**Right brain: Nah, we can worry about coherence later. Hey, maybe in 5th year Sherlock could break into the Ministry and set an Acromantula on-**

**Left brain: But he hasn't even-**

**Right brain: -and Sirius could cover for him while Mycroft takes over the-**

**Left brain: ...You do realize these should be published in chronological order?**

**Right brain: Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?**

**Left brain: Time. It's a linear thing. **

**Right brain: Last I heard it was a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey-**

**Left brain: You lower the IQ of the entire cranium.**


End file.
